


First Dates

by ponticle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Accidental Sex, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad dates, Best Friends, Blind Date, Budding Love, F/M, First Dates, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Personal Growth, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-15 21:21:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14798198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponticle/pseuds/ponticle
Summary: Alistair Theirin just got out of an intense relationship. He's promised himself (and his BFF Isabela) that he won't spend another minute wallowing. Will he find love on a blind date?----------





	1. The Hawke Date

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rather silly story... but it's cute... and I love Isabela and Alistair as BFFs... :) Happy reading!

* * *

Alistair lifts his gaze hesitantly. He scans the restaurant from left to right. The inside of his lip feels bruised from biting it, but he doesn’t let the discomfort show. It’s time—he promised himself that he wasn’t going to spend another month (or week or day or hour or minute) _wallowing_. It’s been long enough.

“How can I help you?” asks the host.

Alistair smiles—blushes a little. “I’m meeting someone… I think he’s already here…” he shifts uncomfortably to look down at his phone. _Here. Can’t wait to meet you_ , the text reads.

The host takes a step to the left and gestures across the room. Alistair doesn’t need him to do that, of course—he’s already surveyed the place for signs—but upon a second look, he _does_ notice a pair of shining eyes peeking from beneath a mop of unruly brown hair. The man waves.

“That’s him,” says Alistair, “Thanks.”

The walk to the table seems to take forever—as if he’s traversing quicksand or crossing the desert.

“You must be Hawke,” says Alistair, finally.

“Hi,” says Hawke. He stands and extends his hand. Alistair is relieved he didn’t go right in for a hug. Some people might have, but Alistair is _not_ a hugger, generally speaking. In fact, he’s snuck out of many a house party or extended family function to avoid such obligatory gestures.

“I’m Alistair.” He pulls out the chair on his side of the small table and sits. Hawke does too. Their knees bump gently.

“So, I’m glad you were able to meet me,” says Hawke. “I’ve always felt a little odd about blind dates… but Isabela wouldn’t shut up about you… so…”

Alistair laughs. “Yeah… she’s pretty persistent… she told me you’re in mergers and acquisitions?”

Hawke sips from the edge of a wine glass. It’s then that Alistair realizes Hawke has taken the liberty of ordering a bottle of wine for the table. It’s a nice gesture, if a bit presumptuous. _What if Alistair had been an alcoholic_? Luckily, he isn’t.

“Yes, only recently… I sort of fell into it,” explains Hawke.

“That’s interesting,” says Alistair. He feels a bit incredulous—he doesn’t even know what _mergers and acquisitions_ actually means.

“You’re skeptical of me, huh?” asks Hawke. He raises an eyebrow and smirks.

“Uh… it’s not really _that_ ,” lies Alistair. He’s skeptical of _everyone_ now… after what happened… “I just don’t know what you actually _do_.”

Hawke leans an elbow on the table to prop his chin. He’s only a foot from Alistair’s face like this. He’s handsome, if a bit rough around the edges. Alistair realizes that his gestures are as presumptuous as his wine-ordering was: he’s daring Alistair to lean in too, but Alistair does not take the bait.

“It’s actually a bit hard to explain…” says Hawke. “I’m basically in charge of putting teams together to assist interested parties… it depends on what the business is, of course, but I basically broker peace and try not to let anyone kill each other—although mistakes have been known to happen when I’m around.” He laughs again. It’s a nice sound—deep and rumbling. “What do _you_ do?”

“Oh… Isabela didn’t tell you?” asks Alistair. “I’m a writer… well… I’m mostly an English Professor… but I’m perpetually working on stories and pieces of novels.”

“That sounds fun—and much less dangerous than what I do,” says Hawke.

“You would think so… I’m not sure that’s true, though. Try standing in front of a lecture hall with two hundred 18-year-olds… they’re brutal.”

When Hawke laughs this time, it sounds more genuine—like he’s surprised that Alistair is funny. Honestly, Alistair is surprised too… he hasn’t been particularly funny in a month… not since everything changed in the blink of an eye… not since Anders…

 _Nevermind. Stop it_ , he tells himself.

“So what do you do for fun?” asks Alistair. It’s a boring question, but they’re just getting started… trying to begin the process of knowing each other…

“This and that,” answers Hawke evasively.

“What about ‘ _those_ ’? Have you tried ‘ _them_ ’?” jokes Alistair.

This lame joke nets him another deep laugh, for which he congratulates himself.

“So what are you into?” asks Hawke. He shifts his weight again—leans into the table.

For a second, Alistair can’t recall. Now that he’s been asked, it’s hard to remember that he even _has_ interests… although, in reality, he has dozens. They’re all connected by a thread, though: he’s trying to evolve. Anders might have said ‘escape’ [his life] but that isn’t true. Alistair is trying to _transcend_ it.

“Well, I have a pretty serious fitness hobby,” says Alistair. “I competed in a few competitions a couple years ago, but mostly I’m just trying to beat myself… my own records… barriers.”

Hawke nods, but he doesn’t look sure. There’s a blankness in his expression that Alistair recognizes as _waiting_ … for a dead space he can talk into.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the night continues in relatively the same way. By the time they’re on the sidewalk outside, they have managed to find a variety of things to talk about—Alistair prevented dead air through sheer force of will. He has expended an enormous amount of energy to do it, though, since they don’t actually seem to have anything in common… but that’s okay, Alistair reminds himself… he had _everything_ in common with Anders… and that worked out _horrendously_. Maybe with someone utterly different Alistair will have a better chance.

“Well, this is me,” says Hawke. He gestures to a _very_ expensive-looking BMW just pulling up to the valet stand.

“Nice,” blurts Alistair.

Hawke laughs again—it’s the smug kind, though. “Do you… want me to drop you somewhere?”

Alistair cocks an eyebrow.

“I meant… like… your house or something…” laughs Hawke. “Although _my_ house is on the table too… I live right around the corner.”

Alistair smiles, but shakes his head. There was a time when he would have been pushing Hawke backward into that beautiful car already… where his hands would have reached for buckles and buttons and zippers before he even thought about it… but that’s not who he is now. No, since all this… since Anders, he’s someone _new_.

“I hope I hear from you,” says Hawke.

Alistair agrees, but he knows he won’t call him again. Hawke’s nice and he’s handsome… but he’s not… well, he’s not anything Alistair needs. Of course, Alistair can’t begin to know the criteria for what he _does_ need… not yet… but he’s confident that he’ll know it when he sees it.

 

* * *

 

“So?” gasps Isabela. “How did it go?”

“He was… _nice_ …” says Alistair.

“Oh god, you hated him.” Although he can’t see her, Alistair imagines that she’s rolling her eyes.

“I didn’t _hate_ him… I just don’t…”

She tries to interrupt him with a variety of non-words and expletives.

“...honestly, Bel… I don’t know why you thought I’d like him…” he says. “We have literally nothing in common.”

“I thought that might be a _relief_ … after—” she clears her throat pointedly.

“Yeah… well… I appreciate the sentiment… but maybe someone a _little_ like me would be better…” He laughs. “I’m such a tit… look at me demanding another date already…”

“You’re _my_ tit…” she says. “All right, hun… I’ll figure it out. Give me a couple days.”

“That’s it?”

“I know a ton of people…”

“Yeah… can you pick someone you don’t know _too_ well?”

They both laugh.

“Love you. Get some sleep. You have to be ready to look good at a moment’s notice,” concludes Isabela.

“All right. Love.”

“Night.”

 

If nothing else, Alistair has Isabela… and a best friend in times like these is more valuable than a hundred dates. She’s a bolstering force in his life—a bulwark through the last few months of hell. The warmth he feels in his chest spreads and, although it’s cold outside, he doesn’t feel it all the way home.

* * *

 


	2. The Cullen Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabela's second date pick turns out to be a blast from the past.

* * *

“Hi… Cullen?” says Alistair skeptically. He doesn’t _mean_ to seem incredulous, but he thinks his face might be giving him away. “I… I’m Alistair… don’t I…?... haven’t I _seen_ you somewhere before?”

“Yes… I’m afraid you have,” says Cullen. His tone is grim, but he’s smiling. “I think we went to middle school together…”

“Oh my god… you’re _Noodle_ …” blurts Alistair.

Cullen blushes. “Yes… well… I haven’t really kept that nickname…” He pushes a hand through his hair. Alistair notices transiently that his hair is cut extremely short. He wonders if Cullen did that purposely to keep it from curling. It’s a shame, really… Alistair _likes_ curly hair.

“I’m so sorry…” laughs Alistair. “Well… shall we sit?” He gestures to an impossibly small bistro table outside his favorite coffee shop. It’s spring—flowers beginning to bloom and a warm breeze trying to cut through the last vestiges of winter—but he feels rather cold and awkward out here on the sidewalk.

Cullen hesitates.

“I mean… unless the reminder of when you had curly hair is too much for you… I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to forget your childhood self…” mumbles Alistair. “I would really hate to be remembered for what I was like when I was twelve.” In truth, Alistair hates who he is now more than he hates any childhood version of himself, but he swallows the bile that rises in his throat and manages to laugh.

At that, Cullen smiles and sits. “I guess it couldn’t hurt. Just don’t put gum on my seat or chase me at recess…”

Alistair laughs again as they sit. This is already going significantly better than last week’s date. Of course, that isn’t saying much…

“So how do you know Isabela?” asks Alistair.

“Oh… well… back in Kirkwall, she used to run with kind of a rough crowd… and um…” Cullen clears his throat and leans into the table to whisper. “I arrested them once… or a few times…”

Alistair’s eyes narrow. “You’re a cop?”

Cullen bristles. “A detective.”

“Oh…”

Alistair tries not to let it show, but that worries him a little. Not that he’s committed any crimes, but he suddenly wonders what he seems like. Has he made any suggestive jokes? Is there any chance he’s setting himself up for handcuffs later? A second thought interrupts his first: _handcuffs_.

“So how long have you been doing that?” asks Alistair, trying to purge his mind of anything Cullen might intuit.

 _Cops aren’t clairvoyant, you idiot_ , says a voice inside.

“Well… I graduated the academy about 14 years ago… but I’ve only been a detective for the last four,” Cullen answers.

Alistair nods.

“And… what do you do?” asks Cullen.

“Oh, I’m a Professor…” answers Alistair. For some reason, that seems incredibly boring now—in light of the chases and intrigue he imagines in the life of a detective. He looks down at his palms and picks at his cuticles.

“That’s interesting,” says Cullen, perking up. “You wouldn’t know this about me, but I really loved literature in high school…”

Alistair nods. The reason he lost touch with Cullen—the thing that separated them all those years ago—was a change of district. Cullen went to public high school on one side of town while Alistair was chosen for a magnate program. Those few miles kept them apart for most of their lives. It’s funny how things like that work out sometimes. It’s one of the things he used to talk to Anders about a lot, actually. Although they grew up about as far apart as possible, they had a lot of commonalities… shared experiences… parallel lives across Thedas.

“That’s nice,” says Alistair. To distract himself from perseverating on Anders, he’s trying to remember the name of their homeroom teacher. It was something with a G… he can see the guy’s face, but he can’t recall the name. He realizes he’s taken far too long to remember when Cullen looks at him strangely.

“Are you… okay?”

Alistair coughs awkwardly. “Yeah… of course… Can I get you something?” He starts to stand and gestures toward a chalkboard listing today’s coffee specials.

Cullen shakes his head, though. “I don’t do caffeine… I actually… don’t do _anything_.”

Alistair looks at him, rather puzzled.

Cullen rolls his eyes. “I’m in recovery.”

 _From what?_ a small voice asks, which Alistair quickly squashes. “I see… is there… somewhere else we should—”

Cullen raises a hand and shakes his head again. “It’s all right. I can be _around_ coffee… besides, it’s not like I was addicted to caffeine… it’s just… part of the lifestyle now…”

Alistair doesn’t understand what he means even vaguely, but he nods as if he does.

“...I’m in control now… of everything,” Cullen continues, “and that means I don’t need anything that might change my state…” He shrugs and smiles. “I guess that must sound kind of silly.”

“Definitely not,” says Alistair. “I think I understand.” And he’s beginning to. He remembers the feeling of being with Anders… _that_ was like a drug too. And just like a mood-altering-substance, the high eventually wore off… faster for Anders than it did for him. He shivers.

“Are you cold?” asks Cullen. “We can go inside.”

“No,” laughs Alistair. “I’m fine. Tell me about your family—I haven’t thought about your brother and sisters in a long time.”

Cullen smiles down at a spot in the sidewalk while he talks. His younger sister is about to attend Law School and his older one has a family of her own now—something Cullen admires and hesitantly wishes for himself. He doesn’t _say_ that, but it’s obvious; Alistair can _tell_. His parents are aging, but well. His brother is kind and gentle: an artist. He speaks of them with reverence that Alistair has rarely seen. It’s sweet, but it’s also oddly repulsive. It makes it clear that Cullen wants the whole package—life and love and freedom and trust… They’re all the things that Alistair wanted himself—once.

...and the things he doesn’t have left to give…

By the end of the coffee date, which occurred sans-coffee, they say goodbye without plans to reconnect. It was nice to catch up, but it’s not the right time… in fact, Alistair thinks they’re just not the right _people_ ; they wouldn’t have worked even under _ideal_ conditions.

“If I get into any trouble, I’m going to pretend we know each other better than we do, though…” jokes Alistair, “Okay?”

Cullen laughs, “Yeah… okay…”

...and just like that, they say goodbye.

 

* * *

 

“ _So_?” asks Isabela on the phone later.

“He was really, really sweet,” says Alistair.

“Oh yeah?” she asks excitedly. “I didn’t know you liked ‘em so straight-laced.”

Alistair laughs. “I mean… I guess… I _kind of_ do… but…”

“But?”

“We’re not going to go out again,” blurts Alistair. “He’s _too_ nice… I’m not—”

“Too nice?” Isabela interrupts. “So Hawke was not nice enough and Cullen’s _too_ nice? What does that even mean?” She’s exasperated, but also laughing… it’s the kind of thing only a best friend can manage to pull off.

“I’m not ready for that level of nice, I don’t think,” says Alistair. “He’s looking for something I don’t have to give. He’s at the marriage-and-kids stage, I think.”

“You don’t want to get married?” asks Isabela incredulously. “That isn’t what you said a few—”

But Alistair cuts her off. He knows what she’s going to say and he can’t bear it… it’s still too raw—too fresh.

“Just let it go, Bel… He’s not the one,” Alistair says quietly.

In the silence that follows, Alistair knows she understands.

“Okay, Al… let me figure out something else, okay?” Isabela asks.

He nods; his cheek brushes the phone noisily. “Yeah, Bel… thanks.”

* * *

 

           


	3. The Merrill Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabela draws from her friend pool and thinks she might have done it! Alistair is less enthusiastic.

* * *

“So how would you feel about dating a grad student?” asks Isabela the following week. She’s sitting across from Alistair in the campus coffee shop. She doesn’t go here; she isn’t even _vaguely_ affiliated with the university, but he hangs out here all the time—not only when Alistair is around.

“As long as they’re not _my_ grad student, I guess it would be okay…” Alistair says. He’s hesitant to commit to anything outright, though. As a rule, Isabela has a higher tolerance for mischief than he does.

“Great… because I just thought of the best person for you,” she says excitedly. “Her name’s Merrill… I don’t know why I didn’t think of her before…”

“Merrill? Haven’t you mentioned her?” Alistair asks.

“I think so… we met a little ways back… just get together now and then to hang out… she’s this total science nerd,” says Isabela.

“Okay… she sounds cool, I guess,” says Alistair. “Set it up.”

“Great!” Isabela smiles broadly. “Gotta get going. I’ll send her to meet you here… maybe tomorrow?”

“Okay.”

 

* * *

 

“So… what are you studying?” asks Alistair, the next day.

Merrill fiddles with the hem of her shirt before answering. “Chemistry… organic chemistry… I’m… I’m going to be a hematologist… eventually.”

“That’s pretty specific,” muses Alistair. “What made you want to do that?”

“I have a thing with blood, I guess?” blurts Merrill. She smiles up at him happily, without providing any further information. It’s a little macabre.

“Okay…” he laughs, mostly as a function of awkwardness.

“So how do you know Isabela?” she asks—just like someone has on every date so far.

“Oh… we go… way back,” answers Alistair. It’s a very roundabout way of saying they once hooked up and have been best friends ever since. Back in the day, Alistair was _very good_ at the random hookup. It occurs to him suddenly that he should _still_ be good at it—nothing about his hardware is different—but he isn’t. He’s ruined in some fundamental way. He laments how different he is in the aftermath of _all this_.

“ _How_ far?” asks Merrill, perking up in her chair.

Alistair has been ruminating long enough that he’s almost forgotten what she first asked. He goes backward mentally until he remembers: _how long have they known each other?_

“Um… about ten or twelve years?”

“Wow… so… can I ask you a question?” she asks.

“Sure.”

“What is her _deal_?” asks Merrill.

“Her _deal_?” Alistair feels his brow crease. “What do you mean?”

“Is—is she seeing anyone?”

“Uh… not that I know of… I mean… not _seriously_ …” Alistair instantly starts to put the pieces together… He can imagine how the conversation went: Isabela said, ‘have dinner with my best friend,’ Merrill thought that meant, ‘let my best friend evaluate you… _for me_.’

“How long have you been into her?” Alistair asks, folding his arms across his chest.

Merrill shifts in her chair to sit on one heel and smiles. “Since I first met her… she’s… she’s _amazing_ …”

“Yeah… she is, isn’t she?” Resigned to the idea, Alistair lets out a puff of air and smiles. “Ask me...anything. I know you’re dying to…”

Merrill’s expression brightens to an almost frightening level of enthusiasm. “I’m assuming she doesn’t really _do_ relationships…?”

Alistair isn’t sure. He lets his head wobble left and right while he thinks. “It really all depends with her…”

Merrill squints in confusion.

“She’s really _variable_ ,” he tries to explain. “It’s all about the situation… I’ve seen her be really callous… but she can also be super tender...committed, even, if that’s what feels right to her at the time… She plays big-and-bad like a boss, but I think, deep down, she wants to be _known_ —for someone to let her be vulnerable and not run screaming.”

Now that Alistair has said these words aloud, though, he feels like maybe he’s talking about himself. _He_ wants to be vulnerable; _he_ wants to be seen; _he_ wants to tap into that squishy underbelly. In fact, it’s what he did... with Anders—maybe for the first time in his life. A pit forms in his stomach, but it doesn’t have time to grow, because Merrill interrupts with another question.

“Do you think she would say yes if I asked her out?” she asks. “For dinner or drink or a coffee or… breakfast? Which _meals_ does she like?”

Alistair laughs. “Isabela is _always_ up for a drink.”

Merrill smiles. “I’ll have to figure out where she’d like to go…”

“Somewhere noisy and not super clean… think _dive bar,_ ” answers Alistair. “She practically _lived_ in one when we first met.”

Merrill laughs and smiles. They chat about Isabela’s favorite music and where she’s from (the answers are: neither of them knows either thing definitively.) Eventually, Merrill takes off, feeling confident… and Alistair feels good about being part of that. Even if it doesn’t work out—even despite everything he’s _seen_ —he’s a _fan_ of love. He hopes someday he’ll have it for himself.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Bel…” says Alistair. He tucks the phone between his shoulder and cheek as he opens two sets of doors and steps out onto the sidewalk.

“So… how did it go?” asks Isabela.

“Well… it depends how we’re defining success here…” he hedges.

“What do you mean?”

“She’s into _you_ …” blurts Alistair. He tries to sound stern, but he can’t sustain it. He laughs.

“Oh my god…” says Isabela. After a pregnant silence, she laughs too. “Well… whoops…”

“Yeah, whoops is right… You’re the absolute worst… have I mentioned that?”

“ _Every_ time we talk,” jokes Isabela. “It’s going to take me a bit to figure out whom to set you up with next…”

“Oh god, _stop_ … I do not need a date this badly,” says Alistair.

“Fine… but if I find the perfect person, I’m going to demand you follow through.”

“All right, all right… gees…” Alistair acquiesces. “So… are you going to be down for going out with her?”

“Who?”

“Who??” Alistair snorts. “Merrill, you idiot.”

“Oh…” Isabela pauses. She’s uncharacteristically quiet on the other end of the phone. “I’m… not sure… I like Merrill, but…”

“I see,” says Alistair. He’s known Isabela long enough to know when her mind won’t change. “Well, just let her down easy, okay?”

“I will, Al… don’t worry,” she says.

“I know you will.”

...and he _does_ —know that. Despite all of Isabela’s posturing, she’s _good_ at her core. She’s kind and she cares about people, even though she pretends not to. In fact, that’s something they share… and the more distance Alistair gets from his breakup—the more time that passes—he’s starting to see: _he’s_ good; he deserves something good… and somehow, someday, he’s going to get it.

* * *

 


	4. The Morrigan Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair plans a date himself--under very unusual circumstances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As most of you probably know, I have a real soft spot for Morrigan... this might be my favorite of all the dates. <3

* * *

“Oh my god, I’m sorry,” Alistair stammers. He can do little else but stare as coffee soaks through the pristine white shirt of the woman in front of him.

“It’s _fine_ ,” she says. Her tone implies, though, that it is _not_ fine. _Nothing_ is fine. “I’ll just have to have it dry cleaned before my first class, I suppose…” she pauses, “which is in ten minutes…”

Alistair cringes.

“You’re Professor Theirin, right?” she snaps.

He swallows. He still can’t look away from the stain.

“I’m up here,” she adds.

His eyes snap up. He realizes (too late) that staring at her stained shirt—which is now basically see-through—could be misconstrued as looking at her _bra_. “Oh god, I’m terribly sorry…”

She squints at him. Now that he’s looking at her face, he realizes she seems familiar. “Don’t I know you?”

“I should hope so… we’ve been to a hundred all-faculty meetings together…” she says. “I’m Morrigan… _psychology…_ ring any bells?”

“Oh!” he gulps and coughs. His throat is suddenly a desert. “I’m so sorry… of course… can I… help you in some way?” He remembers he has napkins in his pocket and thrusts them toward her.

She brushes the napkins against her chest idly, but her eyes don’t leave Alistair’s.

“...can I at least get you another coffee?” he asks.

“I suppose.” Morrigan rolls her eyes, but does not hesitate to walk back past him toward the campus coffee shop. “But you’ll have to get it to go—I have a lecture.”

Alistair stands in line while Morrigan goes into the restroom to sort herself out—ostensibly. Alistair has no idea how such a thing would be accomplished. The shirt is likely ruined. Unfortunately, by the time he reaches the counter, he realizes he doesn’t know what to order. He defaults to a cappuccino—everyone likes those, don’t they?

“What did you get?” asks Morrigan. She’s suddenly right behind him, which is confusing, because she seems to have alighted there silently—like a bird or something.

“Cappuccino,” answers Alistair hopefully.

“Passable.” She smiles and takes the cup. Strangely enough, she seems to have managed to fix her shirt situation—by taking it off. Now, she’s wearing only her blazer, buttoned right in the middle; it’s _very_ risque for academia. Alistair doesn’t dare say anything, because it’s _his_ fault, but he wonders what her students will do when they see her.

“I’m sorry again,” Alistair says, shrugging.

“I appreciate that,” she says. Not ‘ _that’s all right_ ,’ or even, ‘ _I forgive you_.’ It’s odd, but in some way, it feels like a relief—to _not_ get off the hook so easily. With Anders, Alistair apologized a lot—for a wide variety of non-essential things… but looking back, he wonders if all the forgiveness he supposedly received was based on anything more than reflex. People have a number of canned responses and ‘ _it’s okay_ ,’ is certainly one of them.

In the aftermath, it seems like a lot of those small mistakes and automatic forgivenesses might have contributed to the end...

“Would you like to get lunch with me sometime?” asks Alistair suddenly. Frankly, he’s surprised to hear himself say it; it doesn’t seem to be in his control, though.

Morrigan eyes him skeptically.

“...it’s the least I can do… after…” He gestures vaguely to her outfit.

At that, she laughs. “I suppose… what would the purpose of said lunch be? Other than to assuage your _guilt_ , I mean…”

Now Alistair laughs too. “I don’t know… it just seems like I could learn a lot from you. How to put outfits together under duress, certainly.”

“Fine. This afternoon,” she says quickly, looking at her watch. “One thirty, across the street at Mauro’s, all right?”

They agree and she whooshes out of the room.

 

* * *

 

As soon as she’s gone, Alistair calls Isabela.

“Hello, dear,” she answers.

“Hi,” he says. “Guess what?”

“You’re locked out of your house again?” she teases. It’s a good joke, because he just called her about that last week. She has his spare key.

“Not today…” he clears his throat, “I am going on a date… that I arranged myself!”

She laughs. “That’s great, Al… who’s it with?”

“She’s a professor… I can’t remember her last name right this second…” In trying to recall it, he _does_ remember that students call her _Doctor M_. “Her first name is Morrigan.”

“Sounds promising,” says Isabela consideringly. “Is she hot?”

Alistair laughs. He can feel himself turning pink as he considers. “Yeah… she’s hot… and terrifying, a little.”

“Ooh, just my type; if it doesn’t work out, give her my number,” says Isabela.

“Yeah, yeah…” Alistair rolls his eyes reflexively. “I’ll call you after.”

 

* * *

 

The restaurant is crowded at this time of day, but not with students. It’s still campus-adjacent, but expensive enough that students are deterred from eating there. When Alistair arrives, Morrigan is already seated at a booth in the far corner, a glass of red wine in front of her.

“Hi,” says Alistair, sitting across from her. “You’re done for the day, huh?” he asks, gesturing to the wine.

“No.”

“Oh…” he laughs awkwardly. He wants to commiserate; as if he drinks at lunch and then goes back to teach all the time… but he _doesn’t_ do that… so he changes the subject. “You found a shirt, I see.”

She smiles. “Yes. I had the nanny swing by and drop one off with me.”

“The nanny?”

Morrigan pauses, looking directly into Alistair’s eyes. The level of scrutiny is unnerving and Alistair almost looks away before she says, “Yes. I have a son.”

“Oh,” Alistair manages. “How… how old is he?”

Morrigan’s lip curls; it’s halfway between and smile and a sneer. “He’s ten. Are you going to run screaming now?”

Alistair laughs, but only as a function of terror. He’s not scared of children, though; he’s scared of this level of directness. People are rarely so blunt. “No. Not at all.”

“Good.” Morrigan picks up her wine glass again. “So, tell me about your novel.”

“My novel?” Alistair gulps a mouthful of water and almost chokes.

“Yes… every literature professor is writing a novel; it’s practically a requirement,” she says plainly. There’s a look in her eyes that says she means it, but that this level of inquisition is actually _fun_ for her. Alistair isn’t surprised… psychologists are just one step away from sadists in his estimation.

“Well… it’s funny you should ask that… I was just thinking I needed to scrap the whole thing and start over,” answers Alistair.

“Why?”

“Well…” He pauses, not sure how to proceed. He knows the answer: he wrote it with Anders in mind; he wrote it _for_ him without even meaning to. He’s just not sure how to say that out loud. He looks at Morrigan searchingly and wonders… is it possible for him to be as forthcoming as she seems to be?

_Yes._

“I wrote it for my ex,” he says suddenly. “And… we broke up on the worst terms imaginable.”

“Ahhh,” she says gently. “And you can’t even look at the words anymore?”

He nods. “Something like that.”

“I understand that better than you know…” Morrigan says.

Alistair squints. He can’t imagine _how_.

“My son’s father… he was… well, I think he was the love of my life, if such a thing exists,” Morrigan explains. “At least one of them—an important one…”

Alistair leans into the table without meaning to. The way Morrigan speaks is rather captivating. He wonders if she’s like this in class too. If she is, it’s no wonder her students call her that nickname… nicknames in a university setting are reserved for those teachers whose reputations precede them in a positive sense.

“Anyway… he and I were working on a research endeavour together,” she continues. “And at nearly the end, I was called away to work on something else… and it was an opportunity I never would have passed up… he didn’t want me to either… but it meant the end for us.”

“I see,” says Alistair sadly. Even though the circumstances are different—even though it’s clear that Morrigan had agency in her breakup, while he had none in his own—he can see it hurts her. The look in her eyes is unmistakable.

“And I never finished the project… and neither did he,” she concludes. “It’s out there as a reminder of a thing we’ll never have back.”

Alistair nods understandingly. In a lot of situations, he would be compelled to reach for her hand across the tablecloth or touch her knee, but he doesn’t feel like any of that is appropriate. She’s somehow _above_ his brand of comforting.

“So my advice to you, Alistair,” she says, “is to finish the book. Don’t let it hang over your head forever.”

It’s silent for a minute, while they stare at each other. They’re communicating in a way Alistair rarely _ever_ has—let alone with a stranger. And yet… he knows already that this isn’t a date… this is closer to a _session_ … And maybe closer still to a turning point— _for him_.

 

* * *

 

“Listen, I have a son; I can’t get into anything messy.” Morrigan says when they’ve finished eating. The words are still blunt, but her expression is soft. “And neither can you… you need to give yourself some time, I think,” she adds.

Alistair nods. “Yeah… I guess that’s what I’ve been learning…”

They smile at each other.

“I’d really like to come to one of your lectures sometime,” adds Alistair. “I bet they’re fascinating.”

Morrigan nods, gathering her things and standing. “Anytime you want, Alistair.”

* * *

 


	5. The Amell Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair makes a mistake and calls Isabela for help--but not the kind of help she offered before.

* * *

“Well, this is a blast from the past, isn’t it?” asks Nic.

Alistair doesn’t know how he ended up here, but he knows—already—that it was a mistake.

The only logical excuse he can bring to mind is that Nicolette Amell was the first serious partner of Alistair’s life and after the shitty dates he’s been on lately, it felt comfortable… now that the haze is beginning to clear, he’s regretting all of it, though. He remembers, suddenly, why they broke up.

“Do you want to get some breakfast?” asks Nic. He knows she doesn’t mean it, though. She’s just being polite. He knows her well enough to know that _she_ feels weird too.

“I actually need to get going,” he says, forcing a smile.

She nods and drops her feet off the edge of the bed. She doesn’t attempt to pull the sheets with her… that only happens in the movies, anyway, but Alistair knows she doesn’t bother with anything silly like that because they’re _still_ so comfortable with each other—comfortable enough not to care.

“Are things going to be weird now?” asks Alistair suddenly.

Nic has her hand on the doorknob; she doesn’t turn. “I hope not.”

“Me too…”

 

* * *

 

**10 Years Ago**

 

“Well, I guess that’s everything,” says Nic. As she looks around the room, Alistair follows her gaze.

The picture hooks are still there, but the photographs are gone.

In the early days of their relationship, cameras were still a thing… as were printed pictures. On the walls of their bedroom, there were sixteen photographs of the two of them in every conceivable pose: at the beach, in the snow, visiting family, eating picnics… _loving_ each other… but now they’re gone. Alistair couldn’t stand to look at them anymore, but Nic didn’t want to forget.

“Do you need anything else… before you go?” asks Alistair.

She shakes her head. “I’ll call you if I do…”

He nods.

“...but, Al…” she looks into his eyes so deeply, he thinks he’ll cry, “I don’t plan to call… unless I have to.”

He nods. He knows she’s right—communicating will only make this harder. It’s bad enough to call it quits after this many years… to admit that there’s nothing left of the spark that once existed between them.

“So… take care of yourself,” she says.

...and just like that she’s gone.

 

For the next few weeks, he haunts bars and wallows, mostly alone. On one such night, he finds himself drunk and miserable at the grossest bar in the city: The Hanged Man.

“Give me another,” he calls to the bartender, who shakes their head. “Oh come on!” Alistair shouts.

That’s when a tall, strong-looking person emerges from upstairs. He doesn’t understand where she came from, frankly… and in his current state, he has no filter.

“Where’re you from?” he asks drunkenly.

The woman raises a dark eyebrow at him.

“No… not like… not like _that_ … I mean… do you _live_ here… in the bar?” he asks. He might be drunk, but he’s not _racist_.

Her face softens into a grin. “Sometimes. I live anywhere I want.”

It’s a puzzling thing to say and Alistair isn’t in any frame of mind to understand even simple words, let alone these. “I’m Al. Who are _you_?”

She laughs. “Isabela.”

“Bel,” says the bartender suddenly, “Don’t worry; I’m about to call this idiot a cab.”

Isabela leans down and squints into Alistair's face. From his vantage point, it seems like there are three identical women staring at him. “Don’t worry about it; I’ll handle him.”

“Handle me, huh?” he jokes. It’s not _much_ of a joke because he can’t keep his eyes open properly, but it seems to be working when she hauls him up out of the chair and pulls him to a small room upstairs.

“Are you going to throw up?” she asks.

“Definitely not,” he answers. It’s true, too. Now that he’s walked—even just thirty steps—he’s starting to feel better.

“Good. Drink some water.” Isabela hands him a cup. “Do you want to _talk_ or _not talk_ about why you’re in this state?”

He laughs, even as he’s trying to swallow. The result is a gurgling sound he can’t quite breathe around. He coughs. “ _Not_ talk… definitely.”

“Fine… then sleep for a while and we’ll handle it tomorrow,” she says.

He blinks. He _must_ not have heard that right. “Tomorrow?”

She laughs and crosses the room to lock the door. Now he’s starting to think he’s being abducted and he’ll wake up without one of his kidneys.

“I think I’m just going to _go_ , actually,” he says, trying to stand, albeit shakily. “I’m feeling much better already…”

But Isabela stands in his way. They’re suddenly chest to chest in the dirty little room and some kind of silent challenge has been issued. Alistair feels it—like the crackle of electricity before a storm or the smell of approaching rain.

“Why did you pull me up here?” Alistair asks.

“I know what you’re going through,” says Isabela. “I can tell… call me a sap, but I think you might need someone to help you through this.”

“Right… um… you’re a _stranger_ ; you know that, right?” Laughs Alistair.

Now Isabela laughs too. “Sometimes, that’s exactly what you need.”

Before he knows what’s happening, she’s unbuttoning the front of her shirt in the three inches of air between their chests. The backs of her knuckles brush against his shirt and she smiles up at him. The expression drips of sex and fury… challenge and pity… desire and contempt… And somehow, he’s instantly sober, suddenly ready for… whatever this is…

...what he isn’t ready for is what will inevitably happen tomorrow… when he has to go back to his life and he remembers that everything is ruined. So tonight, when Isabela tips her chin up and reaches for him, he kisses her. When she gasps against the skin of his neck, he shoves his hand down, against the flat of her stomach and under the fabric of her pants. And when she douses the light and pushes him backward into the bed, he tries to _forget_.

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

“Bel, I did something idiotic,” says Alistair into the phone. He hasn’t even managed to get out of bed. The whole thing looks wrecked—a long rope of sheets is trying to cut off the circulation to one of his legs.

“What this time?” She laughs gently.

“No… something really terrible,” he amends. “I accidentally had sex with Nic.”

“What?”

“I know. It’s so stupid,” Alistair laments.

“What were you thinking?” Isabela asks.

“That she felt warm and seemed familiar?”

“In what universe is _familiar_ the thing to get over a breakup with?” asks Isabela. “Didn’t I teach you anything? A _stranger_ , Al. That’s the thing…”

They both laugh, although it’s tinged with something uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry, Bel… it’s stupid,” says Alistair finally.

“You don’t have to apologize _to me_ … I think you better apologize to Nic, though,” she says. “You two were finally hitting a friendship groove after all this time.”

“Yeah; I totally fucked everything up.” Alistair sighs, wiping a hand across his face. “Can you… can you come pick me up? I didn’t drive here.”

Isabela tisks pityingly. “I’ll be there in twenty; try to be dressed by then, okay?”

Alistair laughs. “How do you know I’m not dressed already?”

“Because Al… I _know_ you…”

 

* * *

 

Alistair waits out on the sidewalk in front of Nic’s house for Isabela to show up. She has this awful boat of a car; it needs a new muffler, so he hears her before she has even turned onto the street.

When she sees him, she kicks the passenger door open across the wide bench seat.

“Thanks,” he says, settling in. He reaches for a seatbelt, but there doesn’t even seem to be one on this side. “Bel, your car is out of control.”

She shrugs. “It’s fine as a getaway vehicle.”

They both laugh.

“So did you say anything else to Nic before you left?” Isabela asks.

Alistair nods. “Yeah… I told her I’m sorry… that this was a stupid thing to do… and that I hope she doesn’t regret it too much.”

“And what did she say?”

“That she doesn’t regret it; she doesn’t _do_ regret anymore.”

“She doesn’t _do_ regret?” Isabela scoffs. “Everyone does regret…”

Alistair is surprised to hear Isabela say that, though. She lives her life like nothing matters… He has often thought that was the flimsiest of facades, though.

“Well, nevertheless, she’s trying to start over… that’s the big idea,” continues Alistair. He decides not to push it with Isabela. She was kind enough to come over here; she doesn’t need a lecture on personal evolution—certainly not from him.

“Good for her,” Isabela says.

“Yeah… good for her…”

“...and maybe you could learn a thing or two from her example?” Isabela smirks. Her eyes never leave the road, but he knows the expression is _for him_. “...you could go out with my friend, Fenris?”

Alistair makes a face. “Why on earth would I do that? I thought you _hated_ him now.”

“Not hated… I just… we had a difference of opinion, but he’s fine,” she says.

“This is really scraping the bottom of the barrel, Bel…”

She shrugs. “Yeah, well… you don’t know him… and… you need a stranger…”

Alistair tries to interrupt her, but her expression softens as she stares out into the road in a way he knows he can’t ignore.

Quietly, she says, “...and I’m not a stranger anymore…”

And Alistair knows, suddenly, that she means something more, but he’s afraid to imagine _what_ , so he swallows and forces a smile. “Okay, fine. Set it up. What could go wrong?”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've actually downgraded this whole thing to a T rating because the sex ended up implied. If the later dates get out of control, I'll reassess then. :)


	6. The Fenris Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair thinks Isabela may actually be _trying_ to kill him.

* * *

Alistair looks at himself in the mirror suspiciously. He only has a minute before he’s officially been in the bathroom _too_ _long_ , but it can’t be helped. This is a mess.

It all started out fine. Alistair was initially too early, but he sat in his car around the corner for fifteen minutes and arrived at the restaurant second, which is his clear preference. When he walked inside, he saw Fenris sitting at a hightop near the window and waved. He looks exactly like Isabela described him… and he’s not Alistair’s _type_ , really, but he’s interesting-looking. And looks don’t matter that much to Alistair, either. He gets a sense of people and typically that’s all he needs.

He started with a joke: ‘ _It’s great and terrifying to meet you_.’ Alistair meant it as a compliment… as in, ‘I’ve heard so many great things and now you’re really here’… but it did not go over well.

“I’m sorry to have scared you,” Fenris had said. He squinted into his wine glass and growled the words from between already-stained lips.

Alistair backpedaled—tried to _explain_ the joke—and eventually found himself laughing awkwardly and trying to change the subject.

They spent the next hour trying to find commonalities. So far, the only thing they seem to share is a propensity toward migraine headaches. As Fenris explains this, he mentions that _wine_ is one of his triggers… which begs the question of _why_ he orders a third glass before their entrees even arrive.

 

And now… Alistair’s here… in the bathroom, trying to talk himself into being brave. “Just go out there and admit what you both _clearly_ think: that this is _not_ working,” he says to his reflection.

...and he means it. Why should they both spend the next several hours pretending that this is tolerable when it _isn’t_? He sets his jaw and decides: he’s going to employ some newfound sense of purpose and directness (where or _if_ he actually has found those things is debatable, but he ignores the mental chatter) and tell Fenris what he actually thinks.

“So… should we get the check?” asks Alistair, when he gets back to the table. As soon as he’s said it, though, he discovers that it’s already sitting there—fully paid and signed for. “Oh… Can I give you at least half of that?”

“Definitely not,” says Fenris seriously.

“Um… at least… the tip or something?” argues Alistair weakly. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“No, it’s fine. I wanted to,” Fenris explains.

Alistair wants to know _why_. None of this has been fun—just a long string of pointless smalltalk and awkward silences. He, again, tries to refocus. He’s about to say the words, ‘I have to get going,’ when Fenris interrupts him.

“So do you want to come over?”

Alistair is rather dumbfounded; he can’t understand _any_ of this. So before he’s even fully comprehended it, he finds himself nodding. “Just for a little while,” he says.

Fenris leads him down the road and around the corner to an intimidating-looking Victorian. Its windows have lost most of their shutters and almost every clapboard seems to be showing signs of rot. The front walk is cracked and jagged, so as they traverse the front steps, Alistair has to try not to fall. ...and he swears, _every_ blade of grass is dead from the sidewalk to the front stoop.

The front door swings open noisily—it’s ominous and feels like the opening scene of a horror film. Inside, the set designers seem to have gone to town: cobwebs hang in every corner and everything smells vaguely moldy. Alistair coughs, covering his mouth with the crook of his arm, but he can’t keep is eyes from stinging.

“Should I take my shoes off?” he asks. It almost feels like a joke—to ask that in this insane place where he’s sure to be murdered any moment.

“Yes, thank you,” says Fenris.

At that, Alistair _does_ laughs—as a function of terror _and_ how hilarious he’s starting to find all this.

“ _What_?” Fenris cocks his head to the side and pushes his bangs out of his eyes. His hair is the most shocking shade of white, right to the root. Alistair wonders how it got like that. Childhood accident? Struck by lightning? Insane amounts of bleach?

“It’s just…” This time, Alistair remembers how to be blunt. In fact, it feels impossible not to be. “This house is _terrifying_.”

Fenris raises an eyebrow. In the time it takes to happen—which seems to be sizable—Alistair considers his possible escape routes from the room. He could run straight back out the door and try not to break his neck on the broken walkway. He could jump up to a high window on his left and try to break through the dirty, yellowed glass. Or, he could beg for his life. That seems most likely. He swallows around a lump in his throat and ignores the sweat beading against the inside of his collar.

“Oh, I _know_...” Fenris’ face suddenly cracks into a grin—wry and disarming. “It’s not actually mine; I’m house sitting… in sort of an extended fashion…” He turns away from Alistair and walks down a dark hallway.

“What does _that_ mean?”

Fenris looks at Alistair over his shoulder. “You don’t want to know; trust me.”

Alistair shivers, but follows Fenris deeper into the house, against his better judgment. They cross a threshold into an even darker room. Luckily, this one doesn’t smell like mold; it smells like ink and paper.

...then Fenris flicks on the light.

“Oh… my… god…” Alistair gasps. He stares in shock at the most beautiful library he’s ever seen. The ceiling, which is at least three stories, is hand painted with some kind filigree. Every shelf looks freshly waxed and stained; they could be maple or oak. And the books—dear god, the books—there are _so_ many. “You have a—” Alistair laughs wildly. “An actual—oh my god… it’s a—”

Fenris smiles bashfully. “A library.”

“That’s selling it a little short, I think,” says Alistair, running over to one of the rolling ladders against the wall. It’s at least eight feet high and it _isn’t_ the longest one. “This is _amazing_.”

“I thought you might like it,” says Fenris.

Alistair stops gasping long enough to look back at Fenris’ face. His expression is something between smug and self-effacing. It’s so different than anything he looked like earlier. Where was _this guy_ all night?

“So have you read all these?” Alistair jokes.

“Hardly any, unfortunately.” Fenris reaches out and strokes the spine of one of the closest ones. Alistair follows his outstretched fingers and instantly realizes it’s one of his favorites.

“Have you read _that_ one?” he asks, pushing past Fenris to pull it out.

“Not yet,” answers Fenris.

“Do you—” Alistair cuts himself off. What he’s about to suggest is super odd and could be construed as a little intimate. “Nevermind…”

Fenris squints up at him. “What were you going to ask?”

Alistair laughs at himself. “Um… this might be weird… but… can I read you the first couple pages?”

Fenris’ eyes narrow further and, for a moment, Alistair thinks his invitation to the library is about to be rescinded. “That would… be _nice_.”

“It would?”

Fenris nods and gestures toward a small red velvet couch in the corner of the room. They sit, side by side and peer down at the page together.

Alistair clears his throat and reads, “If you really want to know about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born…”

 

* * *

 

“Hello?” answers Isabela.

“Hi… so… I hate to admit this, but you didn’t do a _horrendous_ job this time,” says Alistair. “At first, I thought you were literally out of your mind, but… I think I get it.”

Isabela laughs excitedly. “That’s awesome. What did you do on the date?”

“Well… we went to a restaurant. That part was absolutely horrible. We had nothing to talk about… and Bel… he drinks a lot; did you know that?”

She huffs. “Just go on…”

“But then we got back to his place… well… that place he’s _watching_?” Alistair pauses, hoping Isabela knows more about that, but she doesn’t say anything. “Well yeah, at first I thought I was about to be murdered… but, as it turns out, he’s just another book nerd…”

“He’s _what_?” interrupts Isabela.

“...a book nerd? Isn’t that why you set us up?”

Isabela laughs so hard she snorts. “Dear god, no. I didn’t know that about him. I just thought you might need someone to be mean to you in bed… really get your mind off all this lovey-dovey Anders shit.”

Alistair stops walking mid-stride. “Oh my god… you arranged my maybe-best date so far by pure accident. Bel, I thought you were a genius… turns out you’re just lucky.”

“Hey, luck sometimes makes all the difference,” Isabela laughs.

“All right, all right… maybe,” says Alistair. “Nevertheless, it was pretty okay once we got to his house. He has a huge library.”

“Really? I never saw it…”

Alistair rolls his eyes; he can imagine _why_.

“So are you going to call him again? Go to poetry readings and shit?” she asks.

“Yes, probably… but… not romantically.”

Isabela growls—so loudly that Alistair pulls the phone a few inches away from his ear. “Why?!”

“I just didn’t feel it; neither did he, actually… but everyone needs friends, Bel,” Alistair says. As he says it, he realizes he’s never put much emphasis on regular friendships. Every really deep relationship he gets into turns into something romantic sooner or later. He wonders what that means about him… and if, maybe, that’s about to change.

“Okay, Al… back to the drawing board…”

“No, Bel. I’m done.”

Isabela laughs. “We’ll see about that.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two bits of personal trivia... (1) that scene in beauty and the beast where Belle sees the library still makes me swoon as an adult... and (2) can anyone name the novel they're reading?


	7. The Gil Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An upstart professor from the engineering department might just give Alistair a run for his money.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't help a crossover when it's these two... please excuse all the dumb Andromeda jokes. :)

* * *

“Excuse me, everyone. Before we wrap up this meeting, I’d like to address something,” says Gil. “We need to handle what’s happening with the sciences at this university—administratively.”

A groan rings out through the entire lecture hall. It’s par for the course for these all-faculty meetings, actually. Alistair, seated in a bevy of fine arts professors, rolls his eyes in solidarity.

Gil, a junior member of the engineering staff, stands up, raising his palms. He’s not usually the type to start something like this, but he looks like he’s about to go on a tear. Alistair shrinks back into his seat, waiting.

“Come on now, we can all work together on this… it doesn’t mean we need to defund…” Gil’s eyes search the crowd and, inexplicably, land on Alistair. “... _literature_! Professor Theirin should still get to run his classes however he wants and he deserves a TA, but does he need _three_?!”

Alistair cringes. He’s well-known throughout the humanities department for being a hoarder of grad students. He’s always argued that it isn’t _his_ fault; students just _like_ him. He normally gets some eye rolling and an undercurrent of grumbling, but nothing like this. Until today, he did not know that even people in the sciences held that opinion. Much less did he think that random professors in engineering knew his name.

“Well?” snaps Gil. “What do you say about that, Professor?”

Alistair swallows. He thought the question was rhetorical and, therefore, has no answer ready.

“Would you take on one less TA in order to make sure I have _one_?” Gil reiterates.

“I… I suppose I would…” Alistair says quietly. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him. Unfortunately, all he can think about is that Gil should have said ‘fewer’... when you’re talking about a countable thing, you say ‘fewer.’

“Not… not _mid-semester_ ,” manages Alistair. “All the financial aid for TAs has already been distributed.”

Gil rolls his eyes. “Well fine, but things around here are going to have to change.” He looks back up to the head of the room where the Academic Dean is peering at him skeptically. “ _That’s_ my point.”

The Dean puts her hand up so the crowd will be quiet and motions for Gil to sit back down. “Thank you for your input, Professor Brody… perhaps you _and_ Professor Theirin can get together and figure out a redistribution plan for next term? Hmm?”

Gil looks over at Alistair and shrugs. “I don’t see why not.”

The Dean smiles. “Fine. Then let’s table this until our next meeting in two weeks.”

 

In the commotion of everyone leaving the room, Alistair tries to gather his things as quickly as possible. He has a variety of things to do this afternoon, none of which are particularly pressing, but he wants to get out of here. Before he can leave the room, though, someone taps him on the shoulder.

“Hey… I um… sorry to call you out back there,” says Gil. “I don’t know that we’ve actually met. I’m Gil Brody…”

Alistair shakes his hand and smiles. “Yeah. I’ve seen you around… and... it’s okay.” He smiles. “You can call me Al… or… Alistair… whatever you want really… just not ‘late for dinner’.” He laughs at his own dumb joke and regrets telling it instantly.

“Yeah… okay…” says Gil.

Alistair nods and picks up his bag. But now he’s starting to feel awkward again because Gil is still standing there, looking at him expectantly, and he hasn’t the faintest idea why.

“So…” says Gil.

“So _what_?”

Now Gil laughs, although he looks vaguely appalled, too. “When are we going to get together…?”

Alistair blinks. _What?_

“...to work on that presentation…?” adds Gil.

“Oh… you—you wanted to do that _now_?” Alistair manages.

“Well… I’m rather busy; I imagine you are too…” Gil says.

Alistair _is_ busy, but he doesn’t think it’s quite the same thing. Those Engineering people seem to be another breed all together. Going into their buildings on the far side of campus is like entering another _galaxy_.

“Yeah… um… I guess we could get started in the next couple days?” Alistair says noncommittally.

“Great!” says Gil. “How about tomorrow? Around six? We can meet at my place.”

“At your place?” parrots Alistair.

Then Gil smiles—gently and a bit mischievously. “Yeah. If that works for you?”

“Oh…” Alistair blushes. He hasn’t been invited anywhere without someone orchestrating it in so long that he almost forgot what it feels like, even if it _is_ just for work. “Yeah… that would be great.”

“Good.” Gil scribbles his address on a scrap of paper and hands it to Alistair. “See you there.”

 

* * *

 

“Okay, so _who_ is he again?” asks Isabela later. She’s sitting on Alistair’s couch, eating him out of house and home. (Otherwise known as a typical Wednesday.)

“He’s an engineering professor… I don’t know what kind…” answers Alistair.

Isabela squints for a second, seemingly in thought, and then shrieks, grabbing for Alistair’s laptop. “You lot have faculty profiles, don’t you?”

“Oh, Bel, please don’t…” says Alistair, but he doesn’t bother trying to wrestle the laptop away from her. He knows she won’t be stopped once she’s decided to do something.

“Oooh… Al… I had no idea,” she says lasciviously, then cackles.

“What?” He tries to lean over to look at her screen, but she moves the laptop away. “ _What_ didn’t you know?”

She laughs again and, after a suspenseful pause, finally turns the laptop. “That you were such a fucking narcissist! You could be _twins_.”

Alistair blushes from his cheeks to his chest as he looks at the picture, recognition dawning. “Dear god, you’re right.”

She laughs again. “Hey, if I met my body-twin, I’d fuck her too…” Then she sobers. “Not an _actual_ twin, of course. _Gross_.”

They both laugh.

“So… what do you think you’ll do on this date? Finally get your dick wet?” she asks.

Alistair makes a face. “Maybe… do you think engineers do it really methodically?”

She shrugs. “It says he’s an aeronautical engineer… maybe he likes to go _fast_.”

“You know it’s not actually a date, right?” Alistair says seriously.

“Well, not with _that_ attitude.” Isabela stands and crosses to the kitchen to pour herself another drink.

“You’re aware it’s Wednesday, right?” asks Alistair.

Isabela pauses before putting the cork back in the bottle. “Oh… you’re right. Hump day. Make it a double.”

Alistair shakes his head. “You’re the worst.”

“I know…” She sits back on the couch next to him, a little closer than before, and leans her head on his shoulder. “You love it.”

“Yeah… I guess I do…” And although it’s unlikely, he actually does. Isabela is the best worst person he’s ever met, he thinks. Even despite all the superlatives he ascribed to Anders while they were together, and even despite every piece of evidence to the contrary, he thinks Isabela might be his favorite human alive. He straightens at the thought. It’s so easy to make friendships into something else. “So… how will I be able to tell if it’s turning into a date?”

Isabela laughs into her glass. “Just do what I do.”

“What is that?”

“Assume everything’s a date until you’re told very specifically that it isn’t,” she cackles.

“Yeah… I think that’s called assault.”

Isabela shrugs. “Not when you look like me.”

“Oh, is that so?” Alistair turns until his chin brushes the top of Isabela’s head. “Then I guess the rest of us can only imagine.”

 

* * *

 

The next evening, Alistair arrives at Gil’s townhouse. It’s such a contrast from the last house he visited—Fenris’ dilapidated nightmare—that he instantly feels at ease. There’s even a garden out front where exotic vegetables seem to be flourishing. They’re nothing Alistair can name, but they certainly seem to be robust. _Kind of like Gil himself_ , Alistair thinks.

“Hi,” says Gil. He bursts through the front door before Alistair has a chance to even knock. “Come in.”

“Thanks,” says Alistair, taking his shoes off in the foyer.

The inside of the house is just as nice as the exterior suggested it would be—wainscoting and crown molding in every room.

“Can I get you anything?” asks Gil. He walks toward a huge kitchen island of unidentifiable stone. _Quartz, maybe? ...or something much more rare..._

“Sure… whatever you’re having,” says Alistair. He sits on the near side of the island and smiles at the room. It’s impeccably clean and organized… kind of like Gil.

“I think we might need a glass of wine before we get down to brass tacks with the budget…” says Gil, opening a bottle.

Alistair laughs. “Yeah… math makes my head hurt.”

Gil stops pouring and squints at him. “Really?”

“Uh… not… not that much—I’m just…” Alistair suddenly remembers that engineering is about ninety-nine percent math. _Nice work, Al._

“It’s okay.” Gil’s face cracks into a broad smile. “I’m kidding. Budgets are the worst.”

“Phew…” Alistair takes the wine glass and gulps it, almost choking. Strangely enough, this is the most nervous he’s been in ages—even considering the wide variety of first dates he’s been on lately. Gil is _intimidating_ —handsome, smart, funny… he’s the total package with a beautiful home to boot. It’s then that Alistair notices a collection of pictures on the fridge: Gil and another guy—in every conceivable romantic pose.

“Who’s that?” Alistair blurts, pointing.

Gil turns, squinting and then smiles when he sees the photos. “Oh, that’s my partner, Scott. He’s on assignment for NASA right now… Pathfinder mission…”

“Oh.” Alistair knows it’s completely insane, but he’s _jealous_... as if he had some claim to Gil because he was invited into his kitchen… for work reasons… He realizes he’s being rude, so he constructs a stupid question to move the conversation along. “How long will he be gone?”

Gil sighs at the photos before looking back to Alistair. “Too long… but… we send emails, every chance we get.”

“That’s nice,” lies Alistair, but the longer he looks back and forth between those unbelievably happy pictures and Gil’s face, the less it feels like a lie. Gil is _clearly_ in love with this Scott character. It’s the most blatant display of such a complex emotion Alistair has seen… maybe _ever_. It’s on par with eighty-year-old couples sharing a muffin in the park and new parents cooing at babies.

“Have you been together long?” Alistair asks.

“Not too long—just about a year,” answers Gil, still looking wistful. “But it feels like so much longer… I mean… the way we know each other. It’s like we grew up down the street.” He blushes. “And… somehow it feels like we met last week too… it’s weird.” He rubs his chin and laughs. “Sorry, he’s been gone a while now; I’m sentimental.”

They smile at each other in the moment of silence that follows and Alistair remembers a time in his life when _he_ was that happy—when he thought he was. It hurts _and_ helps, in ways he can’t entirely understand.

“All right, well… let’s get to the budget,” says Gil, pulling out a huge binder and about fifteen pens.

...and although it isn’t what Alistair imagined the night would be like, he’s happy he came… because now he _remembers_.

* * *

 


	8. The Dorian Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabela is pushing kind of hard for this one... Alistair is incredulous.

* * *

“Isabela, please stop,” whines Alistair. “I’ve pretty much had it.”

“Oh, come on, Al… you haven’t been on _that_ many dates,” she chides. “I’m not counting anyone you met before as a date… or anything that turned out to be some work thing or friend thing or person-who-is-actually-into-me thing.”

“Convenient lines to draw...” Alistair mumbles.

Isabela smirks at him from across the couch. On weekends, she often takes up residence there from 2am Friday through Sunday brunch. “Come on, just go out with this one last guy and if you hate him, I’ll give up forever.” She’s almost _pleading_. It’s a strange move, actually; Alistair has never known Isabela to work so hard at _anything_. It begs a question:

“Why are you pushing for this?” he asks.

“Because…” she pauses, apparently stumped, “...because I think you’ll like him… like… _really_ like him.”

“How do you even know him?”

“He’s a friend of a friend…” she says evasively. Something about her tone sounds off, though.

“Which friend?” Alistair waits. He can see her breathing shallowly. “ _Which_ friend?”

“...Anders…”

“What?” Alistair is at a loss for words. He finds his mouth _hanging_ open.

“I know… I know… but… they’re not like bffs or anything…” Isabela tries to explain.

“I can’t _believe_ you’d do this to me…”

“They’re not even really _friends_ … they just sometimes see each other at conferences…” she continues. “They’re both in politics…”

“My _god_ …”

“But he knows what Anders put you through… I told him the whole story,” adds Isabela.

“Is that supposed to make me feel _better_?” cries Alistair. He’s not trying to be mean, he’s just horrified. “That story isn’t going to make him like me more… it just proves that I’m a fucking loser who can’t hold onto anything good… who was tricked and dumped and discarded like garbage…”

“Al… Stop. I told him how much this whole situation has improved you… how you’re twice the person you were.” Isabela swallows audibly. “I told him how _proud_ I am of you...”

Alistair lets out a big sigh and tries not to cry. He can’t believe how quickly he’s finding himself back here—back in this horrible place where no one will ever love him like Anders pretended to.

“Al… he’s a really nice guy and I think you’re going to get along great… you’re… you’re kind of similar…” says Isabela. “...but in all the ways that you and Anders weren’t similar… you don’t have every single thing in common, but you’re complimentary. He’s kind of brave… and boyish… and he’s kinda into himself like you are…”

Alistair laughs, despite himself.

“...and you’re dealing with the same demons. Just… go out with him, Al… _for me_.”

Alistair takes a deep breath and doesn’t pull away when Isabela hugs him around the waist. “Fine. I’ll go.”

 

* * *

 

The bar is almost empty by the time Alistair gets there. It’s after 10:30 on a weekend, so that’s mysterious in and of itself, but he tries not to let it bother him. He scans the room and sees someone who matches the description sitting at the bar.

“Hi,” calls Alistair. He doesn’t have to say it loudly, but he wants to make sure his voice sounds clear. The result is sort of abrasive, but he can’t seem to care. This person he’s about to meet _knows_ Anders… He’s a point of contact to someone lost—someone gone.

“Hi, I’m Dorian.” Then he turns, dazzling smile and perfectly curled upper lip, and Alistair feels something in his chest snap. It’s the kind of feeling that _might_ mean they’re going to fall in love now and everything in his life will be different.

...but it’s _not_ that. Alistair sees something in those beautiful grey eyes that he recognizes from his own reflection: regret, sadness… _despair_. It’s the kind of thing he would never have picked up on before… but now that he’s seen it so intimately—so many times, so many days in a row—it’s a look he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget.

“I’m Alistair,” he says, extending his hand across two feet of smooth bar. It’s a really nice place that Isabela sent them to. He wonders transiently if Dorian frequents places like this; he looks right at home.

“I’m glad to meet you,” says Dorian. “Do you want to sit at a table?” He gestures vaguely to some small ones toward the back. They’re wrapped in maroon leather booth-seating and lit only from single pendant lights. It feels like they’ve been transported back in time.

“I’m fine here, actually,” says Alistair. He doesn’t know why, but he feels like those booths _mean_ something… and he’s very skeptical right now.

“Good. I am too,” says Dorian. He picks up a snifter of what Alistair imagines is Scotch and swirls it around the glass. “I’m much more of a bar person than a booth-in-the-back person.”

“Me too.” Alistair smiles.

“What are you drinking?” asks the bartender suddenly. Alistair jumps a little; he wasn’t paying attention and it’s like the bartender appeared out of thin air.

“Bourbon? Something unusual?” says Alistair. He doesn’t know why he’s not sure; it’s the only hard liquor he ever drinks and this definitely feels like a hard liquor kind of establishment.

Dorian smiles at him when the bartender walks away. “Nice choice.” He raises his own glass and intimates that they’ve ordered the same thing. “They only serve small batch stuff here.”

“That’s neat,” says Alistair. And it’s true; he _does_ think it’s neat, but he has so many other thoughts rattling around in his head that it might as well be a lie. Not the least of which is _why_ does this guy look like that? What _happened_ to him?

“So… Isabela…” begins Alistair. It’s the same thing he’s done on lots of these dates—she’s their common point of contact. But on _this_ one, she’s just the safer option.

“Yeah, she’s quite persistent,” says Dorian. He sips his drink while Alistair receives his own. Then he looks surreptitiously around the room. “Can I be frank, Alistair?”

“I wish you would,” says Alistair, nodding.

“I’m not in a position to be dating right now,” he says. “But if you need to occupy your mind for an hour or two here and there, I think that’s something I can do.”

It occurs to Alistair that Dorian is _bargaining_ with him. And although that could seem like a callous way to deal with life events such as these, Alistair admires it. He’s saying, ‘I can’t do this, but let me tell you what my actual limits are.’

“Have I scared you away already?” asks Dorian.

“I find your candor really refreshing, actually.”

“Good… so… what do you think?”

“Why are you _like_ this?” asks Alistair. He’s surprised at his level of bluntness, but It feels _right_ , actually. Besides, Dorian started it.

“I don’t know that it’s your business.” Dorian turns away until his face is sharply in profile. It’s a beautiful profile, but Alistair is scared of it; he’s a man on the edge and every word he says and gesture he makes proves that more thoroughly.

“You know all the details of _my_ story, from what I understand,” says Alistair quietly. He leans in just a fraction of an inch, but it seems to do the trick; Dorian turns back.

“I… I had a lover,” he says. “...a partner, maybe.” He clears his throat like every word of this is cutting his throat on the way out. “And we were—well, I _thought_ we were…” he scoffs, suddenly. It’s loud in the relative silence of the restaurant and Alistair backs up. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. He betrayed me—us—the whole political party… and he… ended up dead…”

Alistair’s eyes widen. “Dead?”

“You know how Qunari politics are.”

Alistair _doesn’t_ , really, but he is too scared to ask. “I’m so sorry.”

Dorian waves him off. “It wasn’t a tragedy in the way you’re probably thinking of it. There were no accidents…”

“I understand,” Alistair lies.

They nod to each other, drinking silently and breathing the same air. Alistair can imagine that Dorian’s pain in this scenario is sharper than his own. At least Anders is _alive_ —not that Alistair gets to know _where_ or what he’s doing every day, but he’s _living_. Even if Alistair is furious with Anders for the next sixty years, he’s out there: a possibility, if everything in the world changed. Dorian doesn’t have that.

“So what are you looking for now, exactly?” asks Alistair.

Dorian barks a laugh. “Anything… and nothing… I don’t know anymore… and I’m too tired to pretend I do.”

“I actually get that… like… on a fundamental level,” says Alistair. Then he smiles—a lopsided thing, but genuine.

Dorian smiles too, but it’s appraising. “ _You’re_ coming out of it, though.”

Alistair squints.

“...you don’t know it yet, but I think you’re going to be all right,” Dorian continues.

“I’m not sure that’s true… I’m sort of a mess still, I think,” Alistair says quietly. “At least… that’s what my internal narrator keeps insisting every time I’m quiet for more than a minute.”

Dorian shrugs and looks into the hollow of his glass. It’s empty. “Give it a couple more weeks. If you still feel like you’re messy, call me. I could use the distraction… but… I don’t think you’ll need it.” Then he stands.

It’s incredibly abrupt. Alistair fights an urge to reach out for Dorian as he strides away.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Bel?” Alistair cradles the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he steps out into the rain. “Do you think I’m getting better?”

“Better at what?” she asks, laughing.

He rolls his eyes. “Better… intrinsically.”

“Yeah, Al… I do, actually.”

Alistair pauses. He has a bunch of questions, namely, ‘why did you set me up with that guy if you think I’m getting better?’ but it doesn’t seem important to ask right now. There’s only one thing he wants to know: “Hey, Bel… can we get together?”

“Yeah, sure. I’m still at your house,” she says.

Alistair barks a laugh. “Of course you are. I’ll be home in fifteen.”

“Can you bring more wine?” she asks.

“There’s an unopened bottle on the counter.”

Isabela laughs, “Not anymore…”

And although she’s _the worst_ , there’s virtually no one else Alistair would rather come home to… well… no one in his reach.

* * *

 


	9. The Final Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair inadvertently goes on one last date.

* * *

“I don’t know, Bel… I just feel like I’m not going to find someone like this,” says Alistair. It’s been three weeks since she sent him on that date with Dorian and she’s made no further attempts, thankfully. Now, they’re strolling down the sidewalk after last call, not looking at each other. In some ways, Alistair thinks this is how they communicate best—side by side, gently moving, sharing secret thoughts and fears. Neither of them is prone to this kind of emotional exposure; they specifically _try_ not to do it with other people… but together… it’s a special combination.

“I’m not sure you can draw that conclusion yet,” says Isabela.

“Yet?” asks Alistair. He looks over at her just as they pass under a streetlamp. Her features look severe and beautiful in the variable shadow and then they’re gone again—obscured in the velvet darkness of the wee hours of the morning.

“Yes… you haven’t been trying that hard or that long,” Isabela explains.

“Is that a euphemism?”

Isabela snorts.

“I don’t think I should have to _try_ , really,” Alistair says.

“Why not?”

Alistair sighs, letting a few moments of silence pass. He knows already that Isabela isn’t going to like his answer, but he thinks it’s true. “Because it wasn’t this hard with Anders.”

Isabela stops walking abruptly and reaches out for Alistair’s arm. “That’s your first problem.”

Alistair rebounds backward. They almost bump into each other face to face, but he laughs and catches his footing. “ _What_ is?” he asks.

“You’re comparing everything to Anders,” she explains.

It’s then that Alistair notices something—a fleck of light against the sharp angle of Isabela’s jaw—and he says the stupid thing that occurs to him without thinking: “Not _everything_.”

Isabela’s expression changes. It melts from her usual smirk into something else—something gentle. “Well,” she laughs and looks down, at once self-effacing and evasive, “be that as it may… you’re comparing _most_ things.”

Alistair knows he should back away, but something stops him. He actually finds himself leaning forward on the balls of his feet.

“And what if I never find anything I like as much?” he asks.

“You will; the world is full of beautiful, interesting, terrifying people,” says Isabela. As she talks, her lips seem to be articulating every word more perfectly. He finds it impossible to look away.

...and it could be the alcohol, still percolating in his body, making everything seem just a shade different, but he doesn’t think it is. So, without letting too many seconds pass in which he’s sure to lose he nerve, he leans forward six more inches and kisses her—hard.

Isabela’s hands land flat on his chest and he expects he’s about to be thrown backward into the brick wall on his left… and that _is_ what happens, but the intent is different. Isabela presses her whole body against his once there’s nowhere left for him to go.

“This is a horrendous idea,” she manages, even as she’s biting his bottom lip.

“I know.”

 

He doesn’t know how they make it back to his apartment, but they do—barely. Alistair doesn’t even recognize where they are until he’s flat on his back in the middle of the kitchen—the front door still ajar, keys left hanging in the lock.

He wants to say something: ‘you’re incredible,’ or ‘god, I want you,’ but he’s afraid to say anything. It feels like the second he admits what’s happening, it will be over. They’ll remember that they’ve avoided doing this exact thing for the last decade. They’ll remember they’re better off as friends. They’ll recall all the times they helped each other because of how uncomplicated the whole thing always was.

Isabela straddles his hips and grinds herself against him while he’s still thinking— _pre-regretting_ , if such a thing is possible—and it feels _amazing_ … the best thing he’s felt in an age. So he reaches up and unbuttons her shirt. It’s easy because three of the buttons were already undone, but the moment he sees her bra he remembers how _magnificent_ she looks undressed. It’s something he still dreams about from time to time, actually.

“Take it _off_ ,” she breathes, and leans down to kiss his neck while he fumbles to push the shirt off her shoulders and unhook her bra. The whole experience is making him feel a little like a teenager—inexperienced and idiotically nervous—but he suppresses it. He’s _not_ a teenager; he _knows_ how to do this… even if the person he’s doing it with is someone he didn’t expect.

“God, Bel…” he groans. He ducks his head and catches one nipple in his mouth. Because he’s _not_ a teenager, he grazes it with his eye tooth and congratulates himself when she shivers.

“Fuck…” Isabela rolls her hips again, this time finding where his cock is trapped inside his jeans, effectively pushing her tits further into his face. “Let me fuck you.”

He nods—as if he even had the _option_ to do something else. He feels utterly powerless—caught in a web of arousal and a haze of _her_. “Come on…” he shifts out from under her, although he doesn’t want to and hauls her up, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing the skin between her shoulder and neck. He drags her backward toward the bedroom, leaving her things in the middle of the kitchen floor, and shuts the door after them.

Inside the room, she turns in the circle of his arms to face the bed. He pushes the hair off the back of her neck and licks a line from her ear to her nape. His hands roam over the front of her body, one cupping her breast, one trailing toward the waist of her pants… and he can’t wait—he has such a poor memory of the one and only other time they fucked, but he remembers it as _formative_ ; he remembers the way she hissed his name and the sounds she made when she came… and it’s all so much that he pulls her in tighter, forces her body backward against his and rubs himself against her, desperate for contact, desperate for _her_ —

...but then she stiffens. “Al… this is a mistake.”

_What?_

“I know. It’s perfect,” he says, still rubbing every inch of her skin he can reach.

“ _No_. It’s not.” She steps away and turns back to face him. Her expression tells him instantly that she means it and so does her body language—she folds her arms across her chest. “I want you too… but you’re going to thank me in the morning,” she says.

Alistair takes a deep breath and sighs it out, shuddering a little. “Okay… okay…” He blinks a few times. “Just… give me a minute.” She nods and he starts to walk toward the bathroom. “Can you—can you please stay?”

And despite every argument against that he can imagine, she agrees.

 

By the time he comes back out, she’s on her side in his bed, wearing one of his t-shirts. They’ve known each other long enough that the odd sleepover has been known to happen, but it feels _hard_ right now. He has to force himself to pull back the covers and slide in next to her.

“Are you okay?” he whispers against her hair.

She nods. “Yeah, Al… I’m okay. Go to sleep; in the morning this will all feel better.”

...but he doesn’t know that _better_ really covers it—it didn’t feel _bad_ to begin with.

  

* * *

 

In the morning, the light wakes Alistair first. Isabela is gently breathing on her side in the bed next to him, and although she looks beautiful, he tells himself they made the right choice. He pulls on her shoulder and she turns.

“Morning, lovely,” she says.

“Morning.” He smiles down at her companionably. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Yeah… I always sleep well next to you,” she says. Then she snorts. “God, are we going to get married now?”

Alistair laughs too.

“Maker… we sleep dressed and have pillow talk… sounds like most marriages I know,” she adds.

Alistair thinks that maybe that’s only the _best_ ones, but he doesn’t say that out loud. Instead, he decides to tell her about something he’s been considering for a few days. In fact, he was going to tell her last night, but… well… they got a little sidetracked.

“Bel… I’m about to do something crazy,” Alistair says seriously.

Uncharacteristically, she squints at him without saying anything.

“...and I don’t want to be talked out of it,” he adds.

“Okay… I’m listening.”

He takes a deep breath, bites his bottom lip, and closes his eyes. “I’m going to contact Anders.”

Instantly, Isabela is on the offensive. “Dear god, Al; you’ve got to be kidding me. After what he put you through, after all this time—”

He holds up a hand and waits until she stops talking. “I’ve been on a bunch of dates—some more successful than others,” he pauses, waiting for her to laugh, but she only rolls her eyes. “And throughout all of them, I couldn't stop comparing—you were right about that.”

Isabela covers her face with her hands and growls. “That’s just sentimentality again!”

“No,” says Alistair seriously, “It isn’t. It’s love. And I don’t know why he couldn’t keep going the way we were; I don’t know what his internal landscape was like, but what I _do_ know is that he was hurting and scared of himself—scared of everything—before we broke up. And I was a part of that. _I’m_ scary too.”

Isabela closes her mouth with a snap, frowning.

“...and if there’s anything I’ve learned from these dates, it’s that people are complex… and life is hard. So… doesn’t someone I love deserve one more chance?” Alistair asks.

Isabela shrugs. She won’t agree, but for her that’s approximately the same thing. “How are you going to contact him?”

Alistair sips air. “I think I’ll send him an email… to start with.”

“An email?” Isabela parrots.

“Yeah… he’s… not really a speech-based-person—not when he’s hurting,” Alistair explains. He knows it might sound silly, but it’s something _he_ understands. It’s something he knows because he _knows_ Anders—because he _sees_ him. He just hopes he can explain himself well enough so that Anders will see him too.

“Okay,” Isabela acquiesces. “Fine…” She stands and tries to straighten herself into Alistair’s too-big shirt. “But, Al… for the record, _I_ don’t think you’re scary.”

Alistair sighs. He wants to say thanks… or… something… but nothing feels exactly right, so he just nods and pulls his computer onto his lap.

“I’m going to make coffee, okay?” Isabela walks toward the door without looking back, but Alistair finds himself watching her the whole way.

 

 _Dear_ _Anders_ , he begins. It feels, at once, too formal and not formal enough. How does one address an intimate who has become a stranger? ...and then it occurs to him… he needs to finish the argument. The last conversation they had hinged on expectations… and now… he knows what to say.

 

_Dear Anders,_

_In our last conversation, you said something that has stuck with me through these last few months… something I’ve actually tried to forget… but I realize now that forgetting never would have helped. It’s something I need to address._

_You said, “I don’t think I can give you what you want.” And before, that derailed me… but now I know what to say._

 

And strangely enough, he knows what to say _because of_ all these dates… because Isabela insisted he venture outside his comfort zone. Every one of these people has taught him something… and it all culminates here:

He wants to be clear-headed like Cullen and perceptive like Morrigan. He wants to be exuberant like Merrill and nonchalant like Hawke. He wants to be unabashedly in love like Gil and serious like Fenris… compromising and candid like Dorian and capable of personal reinvention like Nic. And more than anything else, he wants to be secretly gentle _like_ _Isabela_ …

_Wait._

Through all of this, who has been at his side? A constant source of support, the person who has believed in his ability to evolve and heal…

He stands, suddenly, dropping his computer onto the sheets, and runs toward the bedroom door.

“Isabela,” he calls. “Isabela!”

She looks up at him, rather alarmed, from the coffee maker… and he stands, utterly still, on the other side of the island, realization dawning in a way it rarely has in his life. It’s like something from a book he’d write: a moment of clarity, a pivot, a reinvention.

“Bel, it’s _you_ ,” he blurts.

She squints at him. “What are you talking about?”

“It has always been you.”

Her eyes widen fractionally and her mouth opens, but she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t even _blink_. She looks utterly unrecognizable and yet the _most_ like herself Alistair thinks he’s ever seen. And it’s then that he realizes he’s standing face to face with one of the people he loves most in the world—a person who no one else could ever replace—ready to be someone new: to emerge scathed, but better. _He’s a phoenix_ … and it’s all because of her.

“I love you,” he says.

“Have you lost your mind?” Isabela asks, but the tone is off. She’s terrified; he can tell. “You just told me you love Anders two minutes ago.”

Alistair shrugs. “I did… I _do_ … but… he’s made his position pretty clear, hasn’t he? You have told me that a hundred times… I just didn’t _hear_ you until I actually sat down to write to him…”

Isabela shrugs noncommittally.

“Besides, how simple do you think I am?” adds Alistair. “You think I’m only capable of loving _one_ person… like forever...? You know life is more complicated than that.”

“No, I know that… it’s a fucking complex mess…” Isabela mumbles. It doesn’t seem like she’s talking to him anymore, though. It seems like she's arguing with something internal. “Which is why… I can’t be what you want, Al…” Her eyes have landed somewhere on the floor between them; she won’t look up. “You have too many expectations.”

It’s _so_ like what Anders said… the thing that Alistair never had answers for before… but now… now he _does_.

“Bel,” he says gently, “Do you even _know_ what I want?”

Her eyes snap up, silently appraising him.

“And… even if you do…even if you’ve _guessed_ it correctly,” continues Alistair, “So what? So you can’t give me _exactly_ what I want? Big deal.”

Isabela squints, apparently puzzled.

“Let’s compromise. I will meet you in the middle; in fact...” Alistair rounds the island and reaches for Isabela’s hands in the six inches of air between them. “...I will meet you _anywhere_.”

Isabela swallows visibly. Alistair can see that her mind is racing from the look in her eyes and even though that could spell bad news for him, he relishes it because it reminds him of how well he knows her.

“Please,” he says again. “Isabela, I love—”

But she cuts him off, closes the gap between them and kisses him—long and full. And when she pulls away she goes only an inch, her arms looped around his neck.

“Don’t say it—” she says.

And he smiles, although she’s effectively cutting off his romantic gesture at the knees.

“But I’m with you, Al,” she adds. “...I’m with _you_. And...for the record, I don’t think contacting Anders is a bad idea… because, we’re _both_ right about him, actually. He _did_ make his position clear, but he _does_ deserve a second chance—so do you… even if it’s never exactly what you thought it would be.”

Alistair looks down at her questioningly.

“So _yes_ , I think you should write him… I’ll help you do it.”

...and even though it’s not what Alistair ever expected, even though it’s nothing like the ending he would have penned, it feels perfect… and he knows right then, his life will never be the same… because it’s richer and fuller and more weirdly interesting than he ever thought it could be.

 

THE END

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this story. It started out rather silly, but ended up with a lot of heart, I think. I appreciate all of your comments, kudos, and sidebar notes so so so so so much. :) 
> 
> Until next time!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Control](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15136496) by [Aurlana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurlana/pseuds/Aurlana)




End file.
